A Gothic Grantham
by andromedasangst
Summary: Gothic AU: Downton is a house with a terrible history. Lord Robert Grantham is the longest surviving male heir of the estate, feeling the effects of what people believe to be the Curse of Downton first hand. His three daughters are plagued with their own supernatural traumas, and a recent murder has the household on edge- with Matthew Crawley hunting for the killer.
1. Chapter 1

As Matthew Crawley looked up at the looming figure of Downton Abbey, he failed to understand why his mother was adamant that he come to this place. The night was gloomy, a light sheet of rain blurred his view of the mansion, and from what he could see, no one was outside to greet him. There was no sense of urgency or panic at all, which was surprising considering the reason he had been requested.

The carriage came to a halt, and stepping outside, he stood before the arched doorway, hesitant to let himself in. _Really, I thought these people were rich. _From the shadows a voice made him jump: "Do come in, Mr Crawley…"

The voice belonged to a lean man almost as old as Matthew, with ghostly blue eyes that stood out from his pale skin. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with rain. "Well, coming?"

"Y-yes," Matthew managed. He was led inside to a dimly lit hallway. Turning, he realised the man had disappeared with his luggage. He was alone, yet the house wasn't silent- he could hear the creaking of floorboards and the whining of door hinges, both above and below him. _Stay calm, Matthew. This is ridiculous. _Toward the end of the hall he could make out the glow of firelight. He had just reached what was surely the entrance to the living room when a figure appeared in the doorway, almost running into him. Matthew cried out in surprise. Despite his pale face and the purple shadows beneath his eyes, the man gave a little smile.

"Matthew, isn't it?"

Matthew nodded. The man stood aside to let him through. "I'm glad you made the journey. Have a seat."  
Once they were both seated by the fire, the man introduced himself as Lord Grantham. Matthew couldn't help staring at the man he had tried to imagine for days. He looked older than what he had imagined, but then again that was probably to do with the recent incident, which would have aged him tremendously.

"It's strange, meeting my heir," Lord Grantham said, his voice monotonous. "Well, it's strange meeting another relative at all."

"What do you mean by that?" Matthew asked.

"Oh you're so lucky, to be oblivious of the curse upon your ancestors… suffice to say, there aren't many Crawleys left. Alive, that is. Why, my direct heir drowned earlier this year, on a cursed ship."

"That's terrible, Lord Grantham," Matthew murmured. He had only just noticed the dusty photographs lined up on the mantelpiece. The still faces all seemed to stare down at him; he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

"Please call me Robert… my title bears a heavy weight in these troubled times."

Neither man spoke for a moment, and all that was heard was the crackle of the fire and the wail of the wind at the windows. Matthew was afraid of being insensitive, but there was something he needed to address- his mother would think it necessary.

"Robert, I'm sorry for your loss. I never met the Dowager Countess, but I'm sure she was a commendable woman, and… I appreciate you calling me here to grieve with you. Will there be a service?"

It was only then that he noticed the grief in Lord Grantham's eyes. Yet there was something else there too… something bitter.

"My mother was the most cunning woman I ever knew, and she was most certainly not ready to die." He paused dramatically before continuing. "She was murdered, Matthew. She was murdered mercilessly by a member of this household."

Matthew had expected a lethargic ceremony and a few days of respectful mourning, not a murder case. Things weren't quite as they had seemed- why had he been asked to Downton?

Robert answered his thoughts. "Now, I wasn't planning on meeting you for a few years yet, but when my footman did some investigating and discovered you were a detective, I knew you were the man for the job. Not only would you have the skills, but you would have the family honour as motivation."

"Detective? But I'm not a detective, I'm a lawyer!" The words were frantic but Matthew couldn't contain himself. What had he got himself into?

Unphased, Robert replied: "But don't you work with detectives? You have the knowledge of the law, the eye for detail, the passion for justice… I've already determined who the suspects are, you'll be able to begin your questioning tomorrow."

Matthew leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed by the whole situation. There was no way he was going to take this up. He would make an excuse to leave and send a letter directly to Manchester, asking his mother to send a carriage immediately. He had to leave this place.

Robert was still talking about how the questioning would take place, when there was a loud THUMP from the floor overhead. Had it kept going, Matthew would have thought it was thunder, yet a blood-curdling shriek followed. A deep voice in the corridor uttered "Mr Crawley" and without a word Robert had left the room.

Exhaling with relief, Matthew leaned forward, head in his hands. He would wait a moment before trying to locate his belongings. His eyes were glazing over from the heat of the fire when he heard soft footfalls on the carpet and, looking up, he saw a haunting vision standing before him.

The woman was tall and foreboding, with a dress of vivid red that set fire to her pale skin. Her hair was pinned back with not a strand out of place; the rubies at her throat winked at him in the dim light. She looked immaculate.

Matthew never considered that Lord Grantham might have daughters, yet this woman had the same firm mouth… and the regal aura this woman possessed was undoubtedly that of a Crawley.

Her brown eyes surveyed him curiously, and there was a glint of vulnerability in them. Before he could speak, however, she folded her arms and said coldly: "So you're the one who's going to find Granny's murderer."

Whether it was the hint of a challenge, the desire to protect this woman or the enigmatic beauty that had affected him, Matthew didn't know. But for some reason, he found himself saying yes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Too late to back out now _Matthew persuaded himself as he tried to locate the dining room. The sound of voices led him away from the room where he had changed into more formal dress, down a flight of stairs and yet another hallway. On entering he was confronted with a large dinner table stretching the length of the room, and the largest canvas he had ever seen taking up most of the far wall. The painting was dark- he thought it might be a Rembrandt- depicting several ships caught in an ocean storm. Robert welcomed him to sit down. It was only once he had settled into his chair that Matthew received the biggest shock of the evening.

Seated opposite him was the translucent yet undeniable figure of an old woman; he could make out the fine detail of her dress, yet he could see the strokes of the painting behind her as well. He gaped at what he was seeing, until the woman said: "It's rude to stare, young man!"

Matthew jumped. "S-sorry."

It was a ghost. He was sitting opposite a ghost. This wasn't real, it couldn't be; he had been sucked into one of Grimm's fairytales.

"So this is the next heir to Downton," the figure mused. Matthews hands shook as he laid his napkin over his lap.

"Yes mother, this is Matthew Crawley," Robert replied, his voice flat. The Dowager Countess turned to her son.

"Robert, I may be dead but I'm still here- and I won't have you continually sulking like this! Cheer up for heavens sake. Now," she continued, returning to Matthew. "You're a detective aren't you? Well people of the common law are rarely heirs to large estates, but I suppose my opinion of you _can_ be swayed, that is if you find out who committed this horrendous crime."

Swallowing his throat, Matthew managed a smooth smile. "I'll certainly try my best."

She returned a half smile before her attention turned towards the entrance, where Lord Grantham's daughters were filing in. There were three.

"Matthew, I'd like to introduce my daughters: Lady Sybil, Lady Edith and my eldest, Lady Mary."

The girls had only just sat down when the butlers entered, placing steaming plates before them all. Matthew stared at the banquet forming before his eyes, there was tender meat that seemed to fall apart at the touch of a fork, surrounded by olives, herbs and all manner of delicacies. There was small chit-chat as Lady Sybil enquired about Matthew's profession, before the Dowager Countess got down to business.

"Now Matthew, it happened a fortnight ago. I was going out to check if I'd left my shawl by the door, when someone pushed me down the stairs. I fell on my stomach, and I heard my assailant approach and stab me in the back," she said. "Quite literally."

The Countess sounded as if she were describing an opera synopsis; Matthew couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"It's terrible", Lady Sybil uttered. Matthew glanced at Mary; her face was smooth, revealing nothing.

"What did it feel like?" Matthew asked. It was only once the words were said that he realised how insensitive they came across.

"Well it hurt, I can assure you! What a frightful experience…"

"But could you determine who it was from their grip? Was it a firm, masculine grip, or could you feel long fingernails?"

"Understandably I was too shocked to register the fine details, young man. Luckily, Robert has collected a list of servants that were on duty at the time. I'm sure once you interview them you'll be able to determine the culprit."

Matthew simply nodded. He didn't present cases in court; he had no idea how to question witnesses and extract valuable information! He would simply have to try his best.

"This just goes to show that servants should be thoroughly checked before being granted jobs in this house," Edith commented, sipping her wine.

"Yes but everyone deserves a fair trial," Sybil replied, frowning. "No matter what their position."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Let's just hope Matthew doesn't make a false conviction," she said dryly.

Matthew tried to swallow and meet her gaze evenly.

"Hear hear," chimed the Dowager Countess, raising her glass.

The pressure was certainly on.


	3. Chapter 3

Sybil waited until Mary and Edith were ascending the stairs to their rooms before she tiptoed in the opposite direction. The servant's quarters were dimly lit, so no one noticed as she flitted through the labyrinth of corridors. In no time she was stepping out through the back servants door. The gravel crunched beneath her feet and she donned the hood of her favourite cloak, a purple velvet garment she had stowed near the door earlier that day. The wind was forceful as she traced the perimeter of the mansion- no one would hear her. She reached the garage yet there was no light from within; he couldn't possibly be having dinner with the servants at this time… could he? It was past ten.

The large garage doors moaned mournfully, the automobiles cast large shadows and their headlights stared at her blankly. She stood in silence for a moment, her eyes scanning the car hoods, the leather seats, the empty buckets lined against the wall.

Without warning, a figure tapped her shoulder. She whirled around suddenly to find Branson the chauffeur grinning beneath the light of the full moon.

"Did I scare you?" He teased.

She laughed, still breathless. "Don't be silly."

He simply smiled and disappeared into the darkness. She saw a candle ignite before he emerged, bathing the garage in soft light.

"So what's the reason for this late visit?"

Branson leaned against the wooden door, his arms folded. Sybil avoided his gaze, tracing a finger along the immaculate hood of the nearest car.

"Does there have to be a reason?"

She could hear the laughter in his voice. "There's always a reason."

Feeling a smile breaking across her lips, she consciously forced a straight face. "You've heard my cousin Matthew Crawley is here?"

Branson nodded. "Yeah it's all the servants have been talking about. A detective from town, come to solve the mystery? That'll do it."

He said nothing more, waiting for her to continue. Sybil hesitated. She couldn't openly accuse him of anything, yet casually asking him would seem inadequate. She needed truthful answers.

There had been signs; signs that Tom was hiding something, and strange habits that insinuated he was… no, he couldn't be a murderer. Could he? The questions had been mounting all week: why had she seen the hilt of a kitchen knife in his pocket the other day? Why were those bloodstains on his sleeve, and why had he been evasive when she asked him where the cut was? Why had he looked so uncomfortable when he had come across the crime scene with Daisy, Thomas and the other servants? And then there was that time- it had been a while ago, yet she had never forgotten- when he was pointing out the parts of a cars engine and he had leaned close, their eyes lingering and hearts racing, when she had caught the unmistakable scent of raw meat on his breath.

Sybil was a strong-willed girl; she usually had no fear in expressing her opinions or her concerns. Yet this situation was different for, though she had admitted it to no one, she cared about Tom. If her fears were true, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. But there was one factor that was forcing her to speak now: she wanted to know the truth, before Matthew did. She wanted the chance to say goodbye.

"Tom… you do know you're a suspect, don't you?"

Instead of nodding grimly, he smiled.

"Why are you smiling?"

"I knew you were worried about this." He unfolded his arms and slowly walked towards her. She froze. What was he getting at?

"Do you honestly think I would do something like that?" he murmured. He was less than an arms length away now. She felt a hand at her hip. Instinctively, she stepped back, her skirt brushing the smooth surface of the car behind her.

His face fell. "You do."

Sybil felt heat creeping up her neck to her flushed cheeks. "No, Tom I just… I feel like you're hiding something from me."

He exhaled deeply. Feeling an overwhelming surge of regret, an apology formed on Sybil's lips. She didn't want to lose this friendship, no matter what the cost. Before she could say the words aloud, however, Branson's eyes met hers, rendering her speechless. They were desperately sad, slightly glazed.

"I am. And I don't want to hide who I am any longer," He exhaled again, deeply. "I'm proud of what I do. I'm proud of my political beliefs and my Irish heritage, and I'm not ashamed of myself. I don't want to lie, not to you. Not anymore."

His face was pallid in the candlelight; it was so close to hers now. Sybil almost couldn't breathe, she had simultaneous visions- in one he took the knife from his pocket, in the other he kissed her passionately.

Yet what Branson did next, she could not have anticipated. Smiling sadly, his lips parted to reveal a sharp pair of fangs.


End file.
